I wrote this at a Panel during AWP. I added on as the trip went on. By the end of the trip, it seemed finished to me. I don’t usually write poetry like this… or poetry at all.
How inspired I am.
Bubbling with ideas and Research
From Esmeralda Santiago to Lucy Christopher,
Taylor Mali, Ravi Shankard and Brian Turner.
I wonder what they think?
How inspired they were
When they look at us?
I wonder if they see it,
The seed beginning to grow.
Seeds make dreams,
Thoughts penetrate into my empty mind
Like a heroine needle
Getting me high off inspiration.
Do they know what they are doing?
Turning us into literary drug addicts.
Feeding us more drugs.
Do they realize what they are doing?
Forming us like play dough
Till it becomes hard.
Are you a poet?
Well, that’s a loaded question.
How can one be a poet?
Roses are Red,Violets are Blue…
Was that author a poet?
Yet no one is at all.
But looking at these ordinary people,
I realized they were all me.
A hipster of the 21st Century .
With twisted mustaches
And fashionable scarves
They built unrealistic dreams
In their empty, uneducated minds.
Hoping one day, they could make it a reality
But you see,
The difference between them and me,
Is that they already worked hard .
They delt with Bipolar teachers,
That made them seem like they were cremated alive.
They felt isolated in a world,
Where their craft wasn’t possible
In a realistic person’s eyes.
They wrote in yuppie coffee shops
As they scribbled down things,
They thought others would want to hear.
They stood tall.
As they made a border of rejection letters,
Around their bathroom mirrors.
They climbed the ladder of difficulty,
As they struggled with acceptance
For they had the confidence
To become the next slam poet
They now have given us
The drive, the power,
To do what in our heart
We know we are destined to do